Drogo's hands tightened on the steering wheel, each inhale measured, each exhale heavy, as if the air in the car itself carried his tension. Karen's gaze remained distant, staring at the blur of buildings passing by the window. For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then Drogo broke the silence, voice low, restrained but edged with anger. "I do not need to know your entire story. I do not need to know where you came from, where you fell from the heavens, or crawled out of some hole in hell. What I know is enough. At least I know whether I am living next to someone that could snap my head off tomorrow or not—which, frankly speaking, I already know you can at any moment."
Fair point. Karen nodded.
